


Green Eyes (I'd run away with you)

by redwhitengay



Series: Green Eyes [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Punk Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:56:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwhitengay/pseuds/redwhitengay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, Harrys life is fuckin' miserable. He works in a cubicle, he hates his life, and he's all alone. Then one day he wakes up and there's a beautiful boy (Lou) in his bed, and he says he's his boyfriend of many years and Harry doesn't know whats going on and honestly I don't think I know whats going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Eyes (I'd run away with you)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic. Lemme know how it goes, yeah? This'll be a mini-series, I'm thinking.

Beep beep beep

 

A pale hand smacks the alarm clock next to the bed. Beneath the dull blue bed sheets, a figure begins to stir to life (whether he likes it or not). A guttural noise comes from the mass of sheets, as the body finally stumbles out of his hiding. 

 

The body appears to be that of a boy - no, man. He looks about twenty, with short cropped hair, that looks like it has potential to be curly if he left it to grow out. However, he never does. Things like wild hair draw attention to oneself, and Harry Styles would never wish that upon himself. 

 

He groans again, and begins stripping himself of his basic white tee shirt and grey boxers as he walks towards the bathroom. He smells himself once, before twisting his face in a disgusted shape. 

 

His pale hand (still slightly sore from having smacked the alarm with such conviction) twists the knob of the shower. Water pours out of the old spout, and Harry trudges in without checking to see if its too hot or too cold - he knows it will be neither. His actions have become so routine over the past years he knows exactly how to twist his nimble fingers in order to achieve the least painful showering experience. Just like he knows he has about ten minutes to wash his hair, and jack off before his water ran freezing cold.

 

He did exactly that. He washed his hair with a simple (meaning boring) shampoo that smelled like death. He jacked himself off, which always seemed to become the highlight of his day, even though he got hardly any joy out of it these days. He mournfully watched his spunk run down the drain, prepping himself to step out of the shower. 

 

He did so, and stood there standing for a minute without a towel around him. Simply dripping and dreading the day. 

 

He got dressed in a white button up shirt with a stain near the hem, and a clip-on tie. Effort is overrated. He poured himself a cup of coffee - straight up black - and watched the clock tick each minute off the day as he "enjoyed" his cup of coffee. 

 

He walked out the door and started to his car, before turning back to remember to lock his door. 

 

Oh, yes. This was going to be a long day. 

 

\--------- 

 

His office was a sad place. 

 

The people in his office were sad people. Not in the sense where they constantly moped around and stole office supplies from their company, Modest Paper Inc.. But in the sense where they either acted like androids, or Red Riding Hoods grandmother in the woods, but secretly cried theirselves to sleep every night watching reruns of Greys Anatomy. 

 

(This is what Harry is assuming, because that's the way he is.)

 

A overweight woman whose face was so shiny and large, you could practically see the reflection of the entire office in it - Gladys, was her name - walked over to Harry's desk to commence her daily attempt at flirtation. With her, she brought a mug that had two teddy bears hugging each other on it, filled with coffee. Not just coffee, though - sugary, creamy, (disgusting) coffee that barely resembled the drink. Her concoction was nearly as bad as the mug she presented it in.

 

Still, Harry accepted it, and politely took a sip through his tight, cold smile. 

 

"Thanks, Gladys." He managed to sputter out.

 

Gladys blushed and ducked her head in a "cute" manner, revealing the family of chins hiding in her neck.

 

He attempted to make small talk, asking how her numerous cats and Internet relationships were going. Harry gave himself a mental pat on the back for managing to look remotely interested. 

 

Eventually, Gladys left him to the solace of his mind. He had been itching to put in his headphones and crank his Timberlake through the entire conversation. He did just that as he got up from his chair and went to the back of the office to dump his "coffee".

 

He swiveled his head around the office to see if anyone was looking before he ducked into the break room. He caught Gladys staring at him. He gave her anther tight little smile, and a wiggle of his fingers. He was rewarded with an audacious wink, and a grin that revealed her off brand CoverGirl lipstick stuck on her teeth.

 

He slipped into the small room. The break room was dimly lit (probably to camouflage the horrendous attempt at a paint job). He walked over to the sink, and dumped his coffee. He fille do t back up with straight up black coffee, and one little squirt of honey. He got momentarily mesmerized by the slow movements of the honey, before snapping back to reality just in time to see another man walk in. 

 

Peter, was his name. Peter was a man who looked like the Ken barbies father. He was the best with the clients, and always won the Starbucks gift card at the end of the year that was given to the person who made the most sales. Harry didnt mind that - he preferred his hideaway coffee shops more than the big chain ones, anyways. Harry could stand Peter more than he could most of the office, but he still preferred to keep his conversations with him short, and vague.

 

"Man, I had a crazy night last night."

 

Pete always acted like he was still a frat boy, not a forty-something year old man.

 

"Three ladies - three times - one night." Pete winked.

 

Harry had always had the sneaking suspicion that he was also a drug dealer. 

 

"I got some leftover supplies from last night, if you wanted..."

 

Yeah, Pete was probably a drug dealer. 

 

"I could sell them to you - employee discount, eh?" Pete winked again.

 

Peter was definitely a drug dealer. 

 

Even if Harry still used drugs (which he hadnt, since he dropped out of art school) - he still wouldn't trust the stuff Peter was selling. He probably cut his crack with baby laxatives.

 

Harry declined as politely as he could, and returned to his full day of meaningless paper work. 

 

\---------

 

Harry closed the door to his flat, and sank to the ground, keys still in his hand. 

 

Harry hated this life. He briefly wondered if this life was making up for one of his ridiculously adventurous past lives. It could explain a lot. 

 

He banged his head against the door a couple of times until somebody from the room over hit the dividing wall a couple of times to shut him up. Harry sighed, and got to his feet. 

 

There was no use complaining - he had chosen this life, after all. This pathetic, unglamorous life that he lived. 

 

Harry had grown up in a middle class family. His parents were white, middle class, divorced, homophobic assholes. But they had payed for part of his art school education, so he put up with them. Then his mom remarried, and his new step dad had refused to waste his money on his education. Seeing as Harry couldn't afford it all by himself, and his dad had placed himself out of the picture - he had to drop out. 

 

He had initially taken the job at Modest to raise enough money to put himself back through art school, to become the comic book artist he had always wanted to be. But then one year turned into two, turned into three - and here he was. Somewhere along the way he had stopped drawing. His undisgnosed depression had caused him to forget what made him feel good. 

 

Harry didnt like dwelling on the past though, and instead heated up a can of Campbell's and some left over pepperoni pizza. He sat and ate while watching the news. 

 

He tossed his dishes in the sink for another day, and changed back into a pair of grey boxers, and a white teeshirt. He jacked off to a video of one man coming on another's face, cleaned himself off, and promptly went to bed. 

 

This entire day felt like the past 365, and the 365 days before that. Everything the same - even Gladys' choice of makeup.

 

\---------

 

Beep beep beep

 

Harry's pale hand smacked the obnoxious alarm, as the rest of his body came into view. He reluctantly rolled out of the boring blue sheets, and started stripping out of his v-neck and grey boxers. 

 

He shuffled into the shower, and jacked himself off to thoughts of pretty boys with their pretty dicks.

 

He contemplated the meaning of life as he rid his hair of suds, and then stepped out of the shower before the onslaught of cold water came to freeze his balls off. 

 

He stood without a towel around his waist, and simply dripped as he dreaded the day to come.

 

Finally he dried his body, and put on a white button-up shirt with a missing button near the collar, and a clip-on tie.

 

He burned himself on the coffee maker as fixed his cup of black coffee, but did nothing to help the pain. He watched the clock tick the seconds off, as he waited for his cue to leave.

 

After a grand total of forty three seconds of sipping his coffee and staring at the clock, he got up, and rushed out the door.

 

As he locked the door behind him, his keys fell. He picked them up, and hit his head on the door handle in his way to standing back up.

 

As he got to work, he could practically feel Arnold, another coworker, stare at his ass as he swished his way to his cubicle. Arnold was married to a woman named Carey-Jean. Carey-Jean worked at a "pray the gay away" camp. Oh, the irony.

 

Gladys gave him another wretched cup of coffee, in another wretched cup. After enduring her repeated attempt at flirting, he snuck to the break room and dumped the sugary liquid out.

 

Then he wasted away the hours doing pointless work that he had no idea why someone would ever pay anyone to do, until six in the evening.

 

Then he went home to "enjoy" his Friday afternoon.

 

Meaning, he ordered in some Chinese food, sexted some guys on Grindr who used pictures of hot strangers as their profile pictures, then came all over his fist and promptly left before waiting for the other male to finish himself.

 

He did the dishes that had been sitting in the sink from the last couple days, took a shower, changed into his white shirt and grey boxers, and went to bed.

 

Had he opened his fortune cookie, he would have discovered the words, "A marvelous adventure shall soon be yours".

  
  


\-------

 

Beep beep beep.

 

Harry smacks the alarm clock resting on the small table next to him. He groans as he slips out of the blue sheets.

 

He begins to strip off his shirt before noticing the color - black. In fact, it was a Ramones shirt - but Harry didnt listen to the Ramones, let alone have a Ramones shirt.

 

He smelled his shirt - as was his morning habit - and was very surprised to find that it smelled like girly laundry detergent and... Sex(?). These were two very foreign concepts to him.

 

He hadnt gotten laid last night, nor had he done his laundry.

 

He gingerly pulled the Ramones shirt over his head, and had just taken off his (red?) briefs, when a voice interrupted him - "Damn, Haz. You're making my mouth water already."

 

Harry flushed red at the use of his secret nickname, and spun around to see the imposter in his bed.

 

He was met with a boy who looked a couple years older than him. He had caramel colored hair that feathered out around his cheek bones. His gaze shifted then to soft pink lips formed into a boyish smirk; small white teeth biting the corner of his bottom lip. As Harry's eyes traveled further down, he saw smooth tanned skin that was pulled taught over mouth watering muscles. His eyes traveled further down to a small strip of caramel colored hair tapering down to black boxers ('My boxers!' he recognized with a start)which were just tight enough on the boy to see the outline of his- the boy in the bed chuckled a bit - "find something you like, Haz?"

 

Harry snapped his gaze up to the boys eyes. Eyes that literally took his breath away. Bright blue eyes that seemed to smile of their own accord.

 

Harry was at a complete loss for words. Then he realized he was completely naked... In front of a complete stranger. He quickly covered his parts with a sweaty hand.

 

"I'm sorry - I.." Harry's voice tapered off as the boy smiled at his his modesty. "Who are you, exactly?"

 

The boy rolled off the bed, and Harry's eyes seemed glued to every move the older boy made.

 

"I'm Louis. I'm you're boyfriend of two years." The boy with the smile - Louis, bent down on his knees in front of Harry. "Need me to help you remember why?"

 

That seemed to be a rhetorical question, because Louis was already pulling Harrys hands away from his admittedly stiff cock (Louis seemed particularly smug about the sight), kissing the junction between his hip and thigh.

 

The soft, wet kisses moved closer and closer to his length - Harry's knees getting shakier the closer he got.

 

"No, stop - I," Harry stopped mid sentence to let out an involuntary moan. This seemed to only encourage the boy kneeled in front of him, as his head started bobbing faster, and his lips seemed to tighten even further around Harry.

 

The only thing Harry wanted more than this beautiful stranger to do terrible, nasty, dirty things to him, was to understand what the fuck was going on.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry -" Harry was close to hysterics, he felt so lost, "- I don't know know who the fuck you are!"

 

Louis looked up into his eyes; the smirk that had previously seemed to be permanently stuck on his face now completely gone, realizing that the boy he was knelt in front of honestly had no idea who he was.

 

He got up off of his knees, and took Harry's face in his hands. "Hey, hey - look at me," He said softly. Harry's (now wet) eyes looked down into his gingerly. "Do you-" Louis bit his lip, "Do you really not know me, Haz?"

 

Harry shook his head violently. "Okay, okay." Louis took a few steps back from him as he ran his hands through his hair, as if the answer was hiding in with his expensive hair product. "What's the last thing you remember?"

 

"I - went to bed," Harry said, unsure of any other explanation to give. "Alone."

 

Louis shook his head, Harry's answer having failed to help anything make sense.

 

Harry continued with the events of his yesterday. "I got up, took a shower," Harry purposefully excluded telling this 'boyfriend' of his about his wank in the shower, "Went to work, came home at s-" Louis interrupted him.

 

"Harry, you don't - you don't 'go' to work..?" He said it like a question. "I mean, like, you work you just don't... Go to a workplace." Harry was deeply confused.

 

"You work here, or in the park, or at concerts, like when you need inspiration, or at-"

 

Harry snorted. "Jesus, Louis. Where do you think I work? Modest would have my arse fired if I just chose to try 'n work at a fucking concert."

 

"Modest?" Louis brow furrowed. "Haz- Harry, you work at MothMan Comics..?"

 

Harry laughed out loud at that, "Yeah, in my dreams maybe. I've been a Modest man for like, three years."

 

"Hun- Harry, you haven't worked there in four years..?" He phrased it like a question again, Harry noticed.

 

Harry also noticed that Louis kept accidentally calling him affectionate nicknames. He wasn't sure what Harry this boy had known, but it was quite clear from the way Louis looked at him - even now - that they loved each other truly, madly and deeply.

 

It made something in Harry's chest ache. If Harry didnt know better, he would have said that he wanted to be this boys Harry, if only to make his electric eyes look happier.

 

\-----

 

"So, what you're saying is that... There's thing wrong with me?" Harry couldn't believe it. Harry didnt believe it. This was like something out of his comics - this wasn't supposed to be his actual life.

 

"Yes, sir. I don't know what else to tell you. Your mind is working perfectly -there's really no explanation for the symptoms you've explained to me." Harry looked over at Louis, hoping for some reassurance that things were going to be okay. Louis was looking at the ground, his brow furrowed and his eyes locked onto his shoes in concentration. He felt Harry looking at him, and gave him a quick, noreassuring smile.

 

Something was wrong with Harry - that had to be the only explanation. However, Harry couldn't bring himself to believe it. There had been things wrong with Harry in the past, and this?- whatever this was, it didnt feel like any of those times.

 

Louis squeezed his hand as they walked out of the doctors office, thanking him as they shuffled their feet out the door.

 

Before heading back to their home, Louis made a surprise trip to The Heirloom, an indie coffe/book shop in a remote part of the city. This stumped Harry - this was his favorite spot, even before he woke up next to Louis. He hadnt been in years, though. Not since he started working at Modest, and his mind had been drained of anything that had made him unique. Whoever this Harry was - he had damn good taste.

 

He told Louis this, but it seemed to trouble the caramel haired boy, nd Harry instantly wished he hadn't said anything. He wasn't entirely sure why he already felt the need to make this boy happy - Harry barely knew him, other than the fact that he was dating some other Harry!

 

Louis ordered one white chocolate mocha with extra whip (and sprinkles) and an americano of their darkest roast. Without asking Harry what he preferred. This Harry must really have had good taste, all jokes aside.

 

The ride back to their apartment was silent. Louis' eyes were focused on the road. For the most part, the road was completely empty - yet Louis still made no attempt to break from his concentration on the wet pavement outside. Harry looked at his shoes for most of the trip, occasionally stealing looks at the boy next to him.

 

\--------

  
  


Arriving back at the apartment they walked up the winding flight of stairs. The wallpaper on the sides of the stairs was peeling, but it was oddly comforting. The golden paper was warm against the cold grays of the sky outside. They approached the foreign apartment, as Louis extracted a key from his pocket.

 

Harry followed him into the small apartment.

 

"You can - like, er. You can take a look around while I make us some food."

 

Harry nodded his approval, and kicked his shoes off with the pairs of combat boots gathered in the corner by the door, like lost children. Harry winced as his bare feet hit the cold wooden floors.

 

His feet led him into a living room. Cheap, broken shutters lined the windows. They were pulled up at the moment, revealing the collection of condensation painted on the window. Outside was still gray and cold - just the way Harry had always liked it. Days like this gave him inspiration just from smelling the cool air. Centered directly in front of the window was a type writer with a blank piece of paper already cradled in its clutches. Various mugs were scattered around the desk - some empty, some filled with coffee, others pencils. A pack of Marlboros were resting beside the type writer he noticed, as he ghosted his long pale fingers over the keys.

 

His feet wound tight steps to the room over - a small bedroom. The walls were painted a warm white, with small white fairy lights kissing the edges where the walls met the ceiling. A vintage poster of Rocky Horror Picture Show was on one plane of the room, and an original movie poster of Creature From the Black Lagoon was taped precariously up on the opposite wall. Dozens of records were leaned up against a nifty looking record player. Harry took a deep breath of the room (which smelled suspiciously like Harry's favorite flowers - Lillie's of the Valley with a hint of vanilla).

 

For a place he had never been in - this felt a hell of a lot like home.

 

Letting his feet take him further throughout the apartment, he found himself in a dimly lit bathroom with little pictures of Louis and... This Harry, lining the sides of the mirror.

 

This is what really fucked with Harry's mind, though - his reflection had long chestnut curls, and a silver ring through the left side of his bottom mouth. He noticed some eyeliner smudged under his eyes, as well.

 

Harry swore aloud, poking and prodding at his appearance.

 

"Kettles boiling!" He heard Louis yell from the kitchen. Harry tore his eyes away from the unfamiliar reflection to wind his way back to the unfamiliar boyfriend.

 

He stopped in the door way of the kitchen - "Are you sure I'm awake? Is this some sick alternate universe? I mean, look at me! I look like this, I wake up to a perfect boy beside me, and I work at bloody MothMan Comics. No way I'm awake. Or at least in my own... Place.." He looked up from his rant to see the Carmel haired boy blushing into the teacups before him.

 

"Wha- did I say something wrong?"

 

"No, no. But do you really think I'm- nevermind..." The boys blush seemed to intensify against his will. "Um. Food." Louis pushed a carton of mysterious Chinese food towards him. "I burnt our dinner, so I just like- ordered in."

 

Harry nodded appreciatively and dug in to the mixed vegetables.

 

\---------

 

Harry had insisted on taking the couch. He reminded himself (again) that this was not his home, that Louis was to his boyfriend, and refused to sleep anywhere but the couch.

\---------

 

“Chill, dude. It’s seriously no biggie.”

 

A girl in a loose pinstripe shirt, and a red bow tie sat in the television screen looking out at him. She had short, floppy, blue hair that looked like it had the potential to be a mohawk. It was all tucked under an eggplant colored beanie. Her big eyes seemed to be waiting for a response behind her thick rimmed glasses.

 

Harry recognized his voice mumbling something incoherent. Even if Harry himself didn’t understand his own words, the girl certainly seemed to.

 

“No, you idgit, I can’t tell you where exactly you are. That would ruin the entire fun of it. All I can say is,” she took an exaggerated breath, “You better fuckin’ have fun, cos it took me a long time to set you up with this gig.”

 

Harry mumbled another incoherent sentence.

 

“I don’t care if the couch is uncomfortable - suck it up big boy.”

 

Harry’s conscious self groaned. The girl on the TV screen rolled her eyes, seemingly in response.

 

She looked at her watch, “Fuck, you’re about to wake up. Talk to ya later, babe. See ya soon.” She blew him a kiss as the TV screen switched off.

 

Although the screen was off, he still heard her voice through the air - “Oh, and remember, Harry - you got to let yourself-”

 

\-----------

 

Hartys gag reflex fluctuated and he sat upright in bed, giving himself a headrush in the process. His head was feeling feverish, and he ran to the bathroom.

 

He then realized he didn’t actually know where the bathroom was.

 

He quietly dashed around the room, like a lost dog looking for where it belonged. He finally found a door with a crack of light peeping out of the bottom of it. He knocked briefly, but the room (luckily) proved to be vacant.

 

He shut the door behind him and ran to the toilet before his stomach spilled its contents down his pajamas.

 

He took deep breaths as he clung to the edge of the toilet. He lost himself momentarily, and heaved into the toilet. Then again, and again, and again, and then one more time.

 

Tears streamed down his face, and he simply let himself lose it. He didn’t know where he was, he had a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch, he was sick, and alone, and he didn’t have permission to call the beautiful boy now entering the room his own.

 

Beautiful boy entering the room? Shit, Harry had barely noticed.

 

Louis squatted down next to him, rubbing circles into his back with one hand, and cleaning his face with a warm cloth with his other hand. He gently pushed his slick hair out of his face, and let Harry bury himself in his shoulder.

 

Harry was so lost, and the only thing flashing through his head were the words, “And remember, Harry. And remember, Harry. And remember, Harry.”

  
What was he to remember?


End file.
